


Ice Grey, Molten Gold

by greygerbil



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Recovery, Reunion, Togruta Sith Inquisitor, post-makeb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23508187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: Cytharat is worried that he has not yet sufficiently proven himself to the Empire, but one member of the Dark Council has his eyes on him.
Relationships: Cytharat/Male Sith Inquisitor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33
Collections: Robot Rainbow 2020





	Ice Grey, Molten Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asymptotical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asymptotical/gifts).



The worst part about kolto tank rehabilitation was that you had too much time to think. Cytharat liked to consider himself a person who practiced an appropriate amount of self-reflection, but having so many hours in the day to examine every thought and doubt in one’s head like a specimen on a laboratory table was not an advantage.

He still had not received a new assignment. Perhaps the upper echelons on Dromund Kaas were waiting to see if he would fully recover, but Cytharat felt a growing fear that his misguided loyalty to Darth Malgus still did not rate over his service on Makeb. After all, Cytharat had toed the line to becoming a traitor himself before he had finally realised that his master planned a full-blown rebellion and didn’t just mean to push for change in the forcible way successful Sith often used to put their ideas forth. Perhaps it was not enough, then – perhaps this sort of betrayal could not be wiped off the record. Unfortunately, too many Sith did not understand the bond of service that Cytharat thought should be between a lord and the master who had helped him rise. With murder of the master being an almost expected step for the most talented acolytes, this was unsurprising. Yet if they all disagreed, then didn’t that mean Cytharat was likely the one who was wrong, who could not understand some evident truth?

He had in some way impressed one member of the Dark Council, but when it came to that, Cytharat was not contemplating the possible political gains. A whole other void of disappointment gaped when his thoughts turned back to that remarkable man, calling to mind his imperious demeanour, fully earned with smart, fast decisions and excellent control over the Force on the battlefield. He recalled the imposing figure, the sharp Togruta horns, the former blue of his skin paled by the marks of the dark side to a grey not unlike the impenetrable, ancient ice that formed the mountains on Hoth; but then there were his eyes, pools of burned gold that set Cytharat aflame when their gaze touched him. Cytharat’s head had been swimming when Darth Nox had leaned down to kiss him and his memory of that moment was sadly faint, but not so much so that it could mask his desire for a repeat with a clearer head. Cytharat owed the man his life, which he would gladly have given in service to the Empire, to Darth Nox, and yet had been allowed to keep even at the cost of a tactical advantage.

He doubted he would see Darth Nox ever again.

Driven to distraction by his thoughts, Cytharat had only the dun walls of the Vaiken Spaceport medical bay to contemplate instead. His eyes were fixed on the clock by the door now, urging the numbers to run faster, which they never did when watched, of course. In fifteen minutes, he would be allowed out of the tank for his daily hours of physical exertion.

It surprised him when the door slid open with thirteen minutes to spare. The staff were usually punctual here, too busy with other patients to waste time in this room where Cytharat was taken care of by the kolto. A nurse entered and glanced nervously over her shoulder, bowed, and left again without ever taking note of Cytharat.

A moment later Darth Nox entered, dressed in black armour adorned with slashes of red, a dark cape billowing behind him as he strode into the room. Cytharat wondered if the machine that monitored his vitals had registered the way his heart had lurched in his chest, his breath stilling under the mask.

Darth Nox raised his simmering golden gaze to meet Cytharat’s and Cytharat became keenly aware of his position, floating limp and naked in the narrow tank like some pitiful zoo animal. He resisted the urge to cover his privates, which would have made him look even less dignified, and instead gestured towards the control panel on his right, hoping that Darth Nox would free him so he could greet him as was appropriate.

Darth Nox, however, shook his head and pointed at the clock. Apparently, the nurse had told him that Cytharat was not quite ready yet. Instead of engaging the controls, he sat down on the metal slap welded to the wall that passed for a bench here. A thin smile played around his full lips as he looked Cytharat over and then into his eyes, without reservation, without shame, exuding all the confidence befitting a dark lord.

Darth Nox acting as if there was no reason to be embarrassed calmed Cytharat in return. There was too little time to fret when instead he could drink in the sight of him again. Now he just had to temper the hopes that flared suddenly in his chest. There was no reason to have high expectations for a personal relationship that had never extended beyond a short, cold-lipped kiss at the tail end of a harrowing battle, much as Cytharat wanted there to be more, but perhaps he might hope for a good word to his superiors if Darth Nox took the time to come here.

Those last minutes seemed to stretch into eternity and be over in a snap all at once. Darth Nox rose and finally let his fingers fly over the panel, allowing the kolto to drain into the reserve tank. Cytharat was slowly lowered to the ground, his toes touching the cold steel first. He took off the oxygen mask and left it dangling from its tube as he stood shivering, waiting for the tank to open. A rush of stale, cool air greeted him. Darth Nox held the towel that laid ready by the side of the tank to him. Gratefully, Cytharat lowered his head before he wiped his face, then wrapped the towel about his shoulders and held it closed in the front, creating a makeshift robe.

“Dark Lord,” he said, his voice raw and deep with lack of use. Being suspended in kolto and doing exercises by himself for the better part of a fortnight had not left him many chances to speak.

“Lord Cytharat,” Darth Nox answered. He sounded amused yet not mocking, his approving gaze taking any sting out of his teasing voice. He stepped back to allow Cytharat to move away from the kolto tank and towards the bench. “Your recovery is going well, I hope?” he added.

“I asked them to choose the most aggressive program,” Cytharat said with a nod. “Full submersion in kolto, then a switch right back into active duty, as one would do in a field hospital. I should be done by tomorrow.”

Though Darth Nox sat down on the bench again, Cytharat stood before him, obedient, with a straight back, almost thankful to have a reason to practice his manners again. One could forgot oneself, isolated in a room like this, focused solely on the physical. Only when Darth Nox pointed at the seat beside him did Cytharat sit.

“You asked to be returned to Makeb. Have you heard whether your request was granted yet?”

“No, Dark Lord. I haven’t heard anything, in fact,” Cytharat said, careful to keep the frustration out of his voice. It was not his place to gripe. “I suppose my superiors still consider my loyalty to the Empire in question. I will be glad to prove myself again if I can just get a chance to.”

“That’s not the reason,” Darth Nox said. “I asked them to stay all offers for your future deployment. I’m glad to know my order was received in time.”

Though his face remained blank, Cytharat felt his stomach twist into a tight knot.

“Have I done something wrong on Makeb?”

“No. There is simply something I wanted to speak about first.” Darth Nox smoothed his hand over his lek. “I have a good crew – though not the most traditional one you will find,” he said dryly. “It is small, however. I have long thought that with the size of my tasks growing since my appointment to the Dark Council, I could use more support on the battlefield. There is also room for someone with tactical expertise. I am offering you this position.”

For a moment, Cytharat was left grasping for words.

“I would be honoured!” he finally managed, with all the fervour of a man swearing his life.

“Good. I look forward to getting to know you better, Lord Cytharat,” Darth Nox said with a vulpine undertone and quirk to his lips.

Cytharat did not know from where he summoned the audacity to kiss him, but before he could stop himself, he had closed the gap between them. Darth Nox pulled him in by the back of his head and Cytharat knew he was forgiven. He let all his focus fall here, on Darth Nox’s mouth on his, his tongue on his lips, the playful, painful hints of teeth as he nipped at Cytharat.

“I had a concussion, so I do not remember our first kiss in much detail,” Cytharat admitted when they parted. “I gained a half dozen scars in the battle, but that loss was the most painful injury.”

“I shall do my best to remind you frequently from now on,” Darth Nox answered.

His bright eyes flared in his pale face as he looked at him and Cytharat felt himself light on fire again, burning with the passion that the Sith valued so highly, and knew that this was as it should be.


End file.
